The Fascinating Sleeping Patterns of a Madisonian Faggot…

Let’s just say that, in the last month, I’ve not been sleeping as much or as well as I need to in order to carry on life function. By way of explanation, I should relate that when it starts to get cold out, I begin to require quite a bit more sleep than the average bear. By bear I mean not the hairy/fat/queer variety, as I more closely resemble an otter in that parlance, but a grizzly. I simply bury myself in goose down, sometimes using my cat as a living hot water bottle, and effectively die for a period of time not to exceed 10 hours at a stretch. This sleep is blessedly dream-free, and generally restorative, even if one tends to wake up a tad cranky and less than willing to vacate the feline-fired cocoon of timed oblivion.
With Orpheus around, this all just becomes more difficult. He still has a job where he doesn’t have to get up early every day, and so stays up rather too late. No matter how considerate he may be, I’m always a little put out by his late-night movie watching antics. Plus, as we’re not actually falling asleep at the same time, we’re not on precisely the same circadian rhythm, either. This means that we’re both getting hot and cold at turns, and thus rather negatively interfering with each others’ sleeping patterns. Furthermore, when I’m over at his place, the situation has become quite sticky, indeed. They turned on the heat in his building, over which individual residents have no control. If it’s too hot, moreover, one cannot open the window for relief without risking a fine from management. So, beyond any nocturnal activities which tend to produce copious sweat, O’s room is like a sauna every night. We’re both cold sleepers. This is BAD!
Really, I can’t think of a way to fix things, but have not yet consulted the internets, so we’ll just have to wait and see what else can be dug up for me to worry about next week. Either way, I find the prospect of not spending so much time sharing a bed with O. to be disturbing at least. As odious as his breath becomes in the morning, it’s the sweetest morning breath to my nostrils, to date… This counts for a lot. By the by, wish us luck! I won’t tell you for what without getting his permission to write about it first, but it’s pretty exciting/fun, anyway. Take my word for it, I dare you.

One (or two,) thing(s) I didn’t tell you about...

Yesterday, I gave (an admittedly less than full,) synopsis of my Thanksgiving vacation, with copious notes on Grandma-based musings. What I didn’t tell you about was the flurry of activity which occurred on Sunday night, after Orpheus came home from work. He was called by his father regarding groceries, as the family was in town, dropping Chemie back off at school. When asked if he wanted to go out to dinner, he said no, as he didn’t want to leave me alone at his place with nothing to eat, which garnered me an invite. Now, the reason this was so surprising was that Orpheus’ Father had absolutely no desire to meet me before this point. He’s rather disappointed, you see, that his son is a fine performer on the skin flute, much like my Dad is disappointed in me for being rather an artisan on the same instrument.
Of course, the dinner invite threw me into a tizzy… I ran out to my car to get something more appropriate to wear (in this case, a red sweater. If I were to be martyred, I figured that the only way to go was dramatically, much like Mary, Queen of Scotts), ran back up six flights of stairs to O’s apartment, and ensconced myself firmly in the room of rest. I won’t tell you what I went through to make myself presentable, but it more or less worked. We went out, and had an OK, meal, despite the mariachi duet going on in the background with no audience. Orpheus was checked out pretty blatantly by our waitress’ trainer, which was uncomfortable for him. Our waitress herself sucked donkey parts, and was wearing a simple band-style mood ring, which I at first took to be a stone ring… It was green (nervous,) each and every time she came to the table, which gave me a private chuckle. As for O’s Dad, he was rather… conversationally impenetrable, with a poker face one should expect from a person who audits Credit Unions professionally. He did say it was a pleasure to meet me afterward, though I got the distinct impression he wished I had breasts. Que sera, I say to you, Mr. Proto-Orpheus! Que sera…
LAST night was interesting. I got my payout check for the retirement plan at my last job, which I optioned into a one-time early payout that was taxed to heck and back to pay down some debts. I finally bought a special, expandable in-drawer knife rack so I don’t have to keep my nice knives (I now have around $300.00 worth of cutlery,) sheathed, loose in a drawer. I also bought a honing steel. I did all of this after prepping dinner, and, as an exercise in kitchen mayhem, leaving Orpheus in charge of tending the pot while I went check depositing/shopping. It was, perhaps, a cruel thing to do, but the only way to swim is to just plain swim, and he has no confidence in the kitchen skills he’s built acting as my Sou Chef for the last few months. He did very, very well, incidentally, and I think he’s getting the hang of cooking, though he still prefers that I do it. I just wish he’d actually live up to our agreements and do the dishes when I cook. Grr…

Thanksgiving, thankfully... Ramble, ramble.

Thanksgiving, per the usual formula, was alcohol-doused this year, but decidedly more pleasurable than its’ last iteration. This was the second Thanksgiving without *Grandma N., Dad’s Mom, and that meant several things… 1) Less horrific gas passing around the table, though Dad is trying to pick up the slack. 2) No mumbling of meaning-loaded phrases, such as “I wish I was dead” under the breath while my little sister says grace, or someone attempts to freshen *an unwilling party’s wine. 3) No more really big hugs, because *a certain person isn’t sure she’s ever going to see you again. 4) No more oral family histories, spun out over coffee laced with a near-deadly amount of Chambord and melted dark chocolate (or just whisky… Take it as a granted that these became more interesting as I got older, and more could be revealed to my supposedly tender ears about the fantastic perverts in my family line).
Last year, the first Thanksgiving after Grandma N.’s death, was hosted by my little sister Frog (so named because she’s a French Horn player,) and her husband Komponist (German for composer, as that’s what he is). They took the bull by the horns, as Mom was still sick and in a lot of pain last year around the holidays, and Dad was down about losing his Mother. I had to drive from Madison to Grand Rapids, MI late at night the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and then Dad ferried me over the next morning to Detroit, while I dozed. He tried to tell me a lot of things in the car, and I listened where I could, and responded while I wasn’t sleeping. In any case, it was cathartic for him, but it just made me feel odd. Because I live pretty far away, it just seems like I’ve become the family’s father confessor, sometimes. All of them ended up using me for just that purpose while I was in Michigan last year. This sucked, as it was also a relatively alcohol-free weekend, and I had to sleep on the couch that night.
Holiday-wise, though, this year pretty much rocked. The only bad thing was leaving Orpheus behind in Madison, as Dad doesn’t really want to meet him, yet. He couldn’t go home, because he had to work on Friday, doesn’t have a car, and couldn’t count on a ride from his family. He had a great time, as they don’t really do Thanksgiving dinner at his house, anyway, and he got to have Indian buffet for lunch, and watch movies all day. I was basically on “suicide watch” every couple hours by IM, as I thought he’d get depressed… It was only at the end of the night that I realized that he wasn’t just burying his feelings, and probably thought I was a bit weird for getting all touchy-feely online like that. By that time, I was drunk as a skunk along with everybody else, variously anesthetized by favorite alcohols brown, red, yellow and crystal clear. We watched ‘Ratatouille’, which Dad pretended not to like at first, but drew quite a large number of giggles by the end. Everyone went to bed happy.
The day after, Mom and I went Christmas shopping with Frog, so that we could list our wants/needs/kitchen fetishes on the list. Frog ended up needing a suit, and Mom said that, since she needed it for mid-December, we should get it now. Frog is very body self-conscious, and kept trying on things that looked like they came from either the men’s section at Pimpercrombie and Bitch, or, worse yet, the women’s section… She’s a little bigger now than she used to be, and while she’s not fat, and doesn’t have back-rolls or anything, it’s very distressing to see her in a classic black suit that gives her camel-toe, and bunches under her arms. Mom and I both got rather sick of hearing her bitch, and were kind of cruel by the end of hour three in the supposedly nice mall in GR, which doesn’t even have a bloody Williams-Sonoma. Fortunately, she went home after our disastrous trip, and I got to drink more while making stuffed peppers cubano for Mutti and Vatti.
Finally, the last day I was in town, Saturday, I started off with a trip to the supposedly crappy mall in town (which nonetheless HAS a Williams-Sonoma, thank god), and walked out with one of my Christmas presents, a 17cm. Wuesthof Ikon Classic hollow-ground Santoku that cuts veggies like they’re not even there, and makes large cloves of garlic into microscopic bits about small enough to fall through the gaps between cells in your tongue. This, I convinced the parental units, was absolutely necessary to my cooking RIGHT NOW, and thus as been ensconced in my TERRA FIRMA: DO NOT TOUCH area of the kitchen, so sharp it might just fall through the knife block. I got home at about 9:30 that night after visiting my sister and Komponist at their charming new home in St. Joseph, MI for a few hours. It was the longest Orpheus and I had been apart yet since starting to date almost a year ago. Necessary, perhaps, but it was good to feel his skin against mine again, which happened almost immediately after walking through the door. We spent all of yesterday hanging out, as I had no role-playing. Terra Firma and Sister took excellent care of Maggie, my precious slut-cat. Apparently, Maggie got very lesbi-licious with Sister each and every night I was gone. Odd, considering that she doesn’t generally like the ladies. In any case, she snuggled right up to me last night, and I had Orpheus on the other side, so it was absolutely wonderful. All was right in the world, and I was warm enough… And now I’m at work. Blah. More tomorrow!

Words that Fire Loins...

I’ve been moved at work. It’s only one cubicle over, but it’s smaller, and has to do with the new ownership trying to make us feel like un-special sardines whose only function is to make corporate fat cats money. Overall, I hate it. However, this is work, so I’m bound to. Really, I just want to be someone’s trophy husband. Let’s hope that Orpheus starts writing the kind of poetry he wrote in school, again. It’s one of the many reasons I kept sleeping with him despite the long maturation process of our sex life early in the relationship. Alternately, lotto, ho!

Why is Aphrodite such a slut?!?

Exasperation. Angst. Feelings of helplessness. All of these states of emotional turmoil are constantly in the air when Aphrodite pulls a fast one, bf-wise. I’ve talked a little about Orpheus’ roommate before, even making y’all aware of certain switches she’s made in terms of the particular board she’s waxing of late. Well, said ditzy-do has settled on dumping the gorgeous, chiseled from marble, Greek Kourus of a med student for good ‘ol dumpy, hairy, annoying BF... Again.
I say ‘again’ because this is the third time she’s pulled such a switcheroo on Kourus, who is the sweetest of Midwestern guys. If he’s not brilliant, then at least he knows his talents, sticks by them, and treats others (including A.) with respect… Kourus contrasts starkly with BF, who is a hyped-up Momma’s boy from NYC. He’s fat, furry in a horribly unattractive way, absurd, a burgeoning politico (danger, Will Robinson!), and uses his religion not as a personal aid, but to prop up his credentials in politics. This puts BF only one step ahead of Dobson and his ilk in my book, as at least the schmuck is a Dem. Plus, he constantly attempts to cheat on Aphrodite, and she really can’t trust him anymore.
To put everything in perspective, A. and BF have been dating, on and off, for three years. In that time, according to Aphrodite herself, they haven’t grown much (except sexually,) as a couple. That is, they don’t really fight, and then fix issues. Instead, they get ready to fight, become frustrated with each others’ preliminary arguments, give up, break up, and get back together after a lot of co-dependent whining on both of their parts, or when A. gets sick of double clicking her own mouse. During these lulls in their unworkable romance, Aphrodite samples the available males, sometimes playing a short but sweet dating game. For some time last year, before studying abroad in Prague during Spring semester, she was involved with both BF and Kourus at the same time, without telling either about it. This state was maintained whilst she was overseas, and upon her triumphant return to the Americas, she continued to juggle them sexually for a couple weeks before dumping K. for the second time. This was shortly after I met her. Shortly thereafter, she got sick of negotiating with BF yet again, and entered breakup #8 with the god-forsaken politico.
She’s been back through one more cycle with BF since then, swore it was OVER, and hunted Kourus down the night of his birthday with Orpheus in tow as wingman. They caught him, Aphrodite bagged him, and everybody’s been happy, except for BF, who was texting/calling A. and all her friends (including Orpheus… God, three times a night sometimes,) about how miserable he was, blah, blah, blah. Then, she went over for a serious talk about boundaries with him on Thursday, and I guess he must’ve just tripped and fallen into her or something, because suddenly she’s “going to make it work, and he’s changed and ooh, the sex was so-o good.” Blah. If she’d give Mr. Kourus half a chance, the sex there would doubtless be better. And when are dumb little girls going to grow up and realize that what they term “boring” probably means stable and caring, and that maybe, if they took a little more initiative into finding out what made these “boring” guys tick, they’d find an individual who could keep them happy for their entire lives? But, no. They’re too self-absorbed, and keep going back to the bad ones.
Good luck, little girls. You (Aphrodite especially,) need it.

In the Untimely Event of my Death...

Today, I finalized my choices for health benefits at work. I've calmed down a little since last post, and am ready to admit that, for the price, the coverage is pretty darned good. Still, I'd much rather be paying the government to give me medical care. That aside, one of the more interesting bits of information I've had to ask for was the social security numbers of my parents, for entry on my life insurance beneficiary form. This is a first, me asking for their SSNs, as if they're my dependents or some such. In the past, it was always the other way around. Only on my 18th birthday did Dad give me my Social Security card along with my newly arrived draft card and said, "Put these in your wallet until you figure out a better place for 'em. The future's your problem, now."

In this case, I sent an e-mail to Dad. It explained the level of benefits in the event of my untimely death, the differing levels if said death occurred due to an accident, and a brief sketch of the way I wanted things taken care of with said money. The last couple lines went like this: 'I'm going to put together a living will soon, but my wishes are that you should first use any death benefit to pay any of my outstanding bills (including anything I may still owe to Grandma Super-Stern), for my funeral arrangements, and attempt to enjoy whatever is left by way of a European vacation. ;-) Please be assured that I don't intend to die anytime soon, and would rather that nobody, repeat, but nobody, ever gets to vacation on my death-dime.'

Sometimes, it's kind of fun to get to be an adult. One gets to say the most absurd crap, and have it backed up with cash.

America, you EEEDIOT!!!

Today, I had my benefits meeting with our overworked HR person, who I shall herein call Person(elle), as she is female, (heroic,) and does the job of 10 all by herself. Person(elle) manages to be, somehow, calm, polite, and bright-eyed at all times, despite the fact that she’s constantly hounded by others. I was hired on over two weeks ago, and this was the first chance she got to go over benefits with me, just to give you an idea of how booked the poor dear usually is. My head is still swimming that I somehow have to make ends meet, and still pay for these damned benefits, whether they do come out pre or post tax! The scary part is, according to her, my place of employment is paying upwards of 80% of the true cost of the plans. If this is the case, and I’m paying about $90/month for insurance, which is WAY better than the plan at my last job, they’re floating me here for about $400/month of true cost, as a single individual. That doesn’t include what they’re kicking back into my “retirement” plan, which, admittedly, is a far less generous figure.

It’s little wonder that nobody pays pop squat in salary, anymore. With large employers forced to provide expensive health plans (which still don’t cover some very basic crap, mind you), they can’t afford to give ground-level workers a real salary, even when forcing folks who live hand to mouth in the first place to pony up for (said) crappy coverage. We’ll leave out, for the moment, that this is the fault of money-grubbing moral misfits who couldn’t adequately manage anything other than balance sheets being at the top of the corporate pile... After all, who wants to fault the people RUNNING companies for draining millions from the coffers while running business into the ground. No, entry level workers, whose willingness to cry nightly over bills while staring at zero balances in their bank accounts are clearly the ones who must suffer. And now Hillary wants everybody to buy into PRIVATIZED healthcare, ostensibly because it will make things cheaper for all? Ignoring the fact that it’s just going to provide an excuse for even more outlandish corporate excesses in the insurance industry, I have one thing to say.

@#$% that shit. It’s time for this country to take care of its’ people adequately. That means several things, the first of which is that we have to dispel the American misconception that government = evil automatically. Worse yet, linked to that particular feat of historically impossible legerdemain, we have to convince them that BIG businesses are, intrinsically, not to be trusted. Don’t get me wrong here… I’m not talking the chairman of the board lunching with Satan, batshit-crazy-evil or anything. No. It’s more like, if a company is so large that it doesn’t have to give a fig about, say, losing 100,000 customers because its’ services stink, then it’s not a people-friendly company, AND YOU SHOULDN’T DO BUSINESS WITH IT. Some insurance companies already look like this… Imagine the bloat with all those extra subscribers! Imagine the fat piles of cash the piggy executives will be rutting in, and all because the government attempted to make all the idiots happy by abrogating the responsibilities of good government. These people are getting elected for ABROGATING THEIR RESPONSIBILITIES. Unfortunately, despite the last eight years, we do still have one of the better open and fair election systems anywhere, so the real onus is on the American people. Wake up you ignorant dumb-asses.

It took most of my restraint not to leap over Person(elle)’s desk and throttle her to death… And this is one of the nicest, calmest, best co-workers I have, mind you… Just because corporate America is winning the war with the consumer, and making us like it. I hate the Protestant Work Ethic. It’s almost as stupid a ruse as “The Purfuit of Happineff” (‘cause all the s-es look like f-s). We’re living in a society based on the idea of the pursuit of PROPERTY ueber alles, children. Watch out. We’re about to get steam-rolled.

Madonna was a virgin in the land that made me me...

So, last night my father, a man with a PhD who should know better, sent me a stupid, retro-philic piece of @#$% forward in bad verse called "The Land That Made Me Me." It begins:

> Long ago and far away, In a land that time forgot, Before the days of
> Dylan, Or the dawn of Camelot.
>
> There lived a race of innocents, And they were you and me, Long ago and
> far away In the Land That Made Me Me.

Pathetic imagery, to be sure, but wait for it... Tales such as these can only spiral downward. Crinolines laid out to dry upon lawns, crap about Frankie Avalon and Annette F. being dreamy, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera… Just throw a slide in of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing on the backs of a hundred buck-toothed, long finger-nailed, braid-headed "Asiatics" in straw hats, and you'd have the willfully ignorant imagery down pat. And then:

> For youth was still eternal, And life was yet to be, And Elvis was forever
> In the Land That Made Me Me.

So, we're talking pre-war Elvis, right? 'Cause the guy who came back post-binge, Brittany Spears-like in the '70's wasn't exactly a catch, nor did he smell of anything but peanut butter (much less forever). And eternal youth? Have you ever SEEN what people looked like in the '50's? Butterballs, one and all. Good skin, yes, but look at 'em now. Further down:

> We'd never heard of microwaves, Or telephones in cars, And babies might be
> bottle-fed, But they weren't grown in jars.

Wrong decade, dumbasses. Jar babies first happen (to my knowledge,) in a novel from the '30's. Brave New World, indeed. And microwaves existed in the '40's under the marketing name of 'radar ranges.'

> And pumping iron got wrinkles out, And "gay" meant fancy-free, And dorms
> were never coed In the Land That Made Me Me.

That 'gay' bit really did it for me. I sent Dad the most acerbic one-lined e-mail ever, then thought better of it and sent an apology with a reasoned argument about why I thought this was the most appalling thing ever coming from a man who certainly has his own personal prejudices, but never lets them show in his dealings with others. I love my father because, though he is hot-headed, he is a very public person, with very much in the way of restraint and TOLERANCE where it's necessary. You couldn't ask any more from a person, especially one who I know, privately, to be most uncomfortable with certain ideas. He wrote back that he had taken no offence, and was sorry if he'd made me mad. I think that's the most positive, telling interaction I've ever had with Dad as an adult. Weird.

Sorority Girls + Booze = Gibbering @#$% Machines

So, my fears were completely unfounded. Dinner on Tuesday was absolutely wonderful, Terra Firma, Sister and I had a lovely time that involved the consumption of a great deal of alcohol, and all was well with the world. It was good to have some time to talk to them without Orpheus present. He means very well, and is indignant on my behalf regarding the roommate situation, but I’m starting to pick up and run with his resentments where they are concerned, which isn’t fair to anybody. It was nice to talk to the two of them about how they are doing, too. All told, I actually saw a bit more of Terra before we moved in together… Now that we live in the same place, it actually seems harder to coordinate schedules in any sort of meaningful way. But Tuesday was helpful in the extreme. Roomie therapy. Added to those positives was my invention of a new drink, known as a Frankencider. It’s two parts dark rum and one part apple cider with a splash of dry vermouth shaken over ice and served in chilled cocktail glasses. Tastes like somebody tried to put the granny smith back in the cider, but not like it contains enough alcohol to turn a sorority girl into a gibbering @#$% machine.

Yesterday was totally fun, too. I begged off work early, as Orpheus’ little sister (a chemistry major, thus her name shall here be:) Chemie offered to get me Mac OS 10.5 at a special student price. While we were obtaining said Wunder-software, we did a little convivial talking. Since O wasn’t there, it was the first time I’d really gotten to see Chemie out of the family context, and just converse. I believe that both of us left the encounter feeling a little bit better about the other. I’m supposed to take her out to dinner next week to thank her, as she saved me a great deal of money. It took about an hour to verify the DVD and install, and other than the little things, Leopard is hotter than a box of liquid magma. The only problem I’m having thus far has to do with the latest QuickTime update taking like 30 seconds to open my porn. Otherwise, Leopard seems meaner, leaner, and far better at memory allocation, amongst other things. The look is more uniform (good AND bad, as they’ve done away with brushed steel), and more slick/3D at once. They’ve got a maddening little feature in the dock called ‘stacks,’ which looks cool but can be difficult to manage. Either way, I am going to need a little time to get to know my white plastic baby again. She’s sexier than ever, though, so that helps.

After installing Leopard, I went downtown to see Orpheus. Parking took thirty minutes, made me freakishly cranky, and probably lost me the election where doing things in bed was concerned. He had gotten a $20 in the mail from his parents, though, and took me out to dinner. In another real turn of generosity, we got some time in this morning before seven to make up for my cranky pants last night. Usually, he’s morally offended if I come near him ‘that way’ before 9 or 10 in the AM, but there was something in the air before dawn this morning, I guess. Hopefully, it doesn’t ruin my chances tonight. ;-)

Research, call... Repeat, ad nauseum

Research, call… Research, call… Research, call… I wish I could say that it were as interesting as I make each call sound. Crass vocal manipulation has been my job before, and it is to be again. Time to find a new job. Know anybody hiring for the position of Muse in Madison, WI? Give them this web address, and hopefully they’ll love what they see, not be able to do without me, and shower my general vicinity with riches. In all likelihood, however, that is simply not to be. Moving on.

Orpheus was dreadfully ill last night, so I made him some “sick tea.” Said concoction is not for the faint of heart. What I usually do is make burgers (basically, the half-pork, half-beef and breadcrumb proprietary formula for my better-than-Mom’s meatloaf,) with frozen spinach added into the mix. I thaw the spinach, pressing the water out and reserving. I mince up a clove or two of garlic (very fine), then drop it into the spinach-water, add a bag of green tea, then zap it all for a couple minutes. When it’s piping hot, I add lemon juice and honey, then drink it all quite quickly. O is not up to such shenanigans. Therefore, I just used some awful tea called ‘throat-coat,’ a single, small clove of garlic, and massive, dribbling quantities of honey. Insultingly, he still had to dig out the rendered garlic before he could drink it. Imagine! All that love in a glass, and still he spurns me… ;-) Oh, well. He was really clingy when I got out of bed this morning, which means he’s still needy. Too bad we won’t be hanging out tonight, and that he’s not feeling terribly ‘able.”

Tonight, I’m hanging out with Terra Firma and her sister (henceforth to be known as Sister,) at home. Since the two don’t really like seafood, we’re having chicken paella. I’m a little scared, but will be doing the alcohol, so white Rioja e Cervesa it is… Keeping the taste buds occupado with a stiff white and/or a mello lager may be just what the doctor ordered. Or, perhaps, Terra’s half-boxed wonder will, again, amaze, as they have the last few times. Any way you look at it, though, I’m gonna be drunk.

More tomorrow, hopefully. Unless I die of boredom at work.

Monday, Monday...

My poor baby has a cold, so I haven’t made much progress on the last post. We did, however, do a very neat thing that turned me on a lot this weekend, though it didn’t get me any closer to actually fulfilling my desires due to a modicum of overexcitement regarding the situation… I found it hot, but slightly unfulfilling. Practice makes perfect. Orpheus and I had a positive conversation or two on the topic, so I’ll take that as a good sign, and repress my inner Horse (Chinese hour/”secret” sign)/Cancer (Western Moon sign, or negative personality aspect,) for the moment. Moving on…

We had a wonderful weekend, despite several big changes in the Way Things Are. First off, my roommate Terra Firma’s (she is not actually named thusly, but her real nom is derived from the word for Earth, and she happens to be quite large,) sister has broken off her engagement, and seems to be living with us for the time being. This makes me nervous, Terra Firma edgy but willing to please, and Orpheus downright indignant on my behalf. It helps that he doesn’t like TF at all, and isn’t overly enamored of her sister, either. He has, however, been ok about being over despite their presence in the apartment, and hasn’t been unpleasant. Therefore am I happy. Another circumstance impacting enjoyment of the weekend was the fact that I had O flip my mattress after a lube-based incident necessitating a sheet change awhile ago. Now, the mattress feels like rocks, and neither of us got much sleep all weekend, despite the time change. However, we still enjoyed our time together. I had the day off from Dungeons and Dragons yesterday (Sunday), so we went to an environmental film festival (selectively!) downtown. Orpheus loves anime, and I’d never seen ‘Nausica,’ so we saw that… We also attended a screening of Disney’s ‘The Three Caballeros’ that went on just afterward, and was paired with a Canadian film from the ‘30’s on the subject of the migratory patterns of North American birds. Given the intertwined subject matter, rather apropos (if weird sounding on paper).

I’m left on Monday with a testy, sick Dragon in my bed, waiting for my return from work with baited breath and a nose full of snot. At work, I have another internal interview to brave, and am, as ever, horny as a monkey can possibly be. If all else fails, I may be forced to sleep with my brand new boss for brownie points, thus fixing most of my concurrent situations, though complicating the one I currently find to be most important. More later!

For Shame, Stone/Parker!

Sex is a most distressing, most delicate, much-maligned and abused part of life. It’s also, like it or not, one of the most sublime expressions of love between individuals… This is why I’m mad at South Park, and a little miffed at Orpheus lately.

South Park, as you may or may not know, just finished a trilogy of episodes set in ‘our imagination.’ The whole mess started with Cartman senselessly delaying a leprechaun (who could’ve just done his job when fatty first saw him,) from warning the denizens of imagination land that terrorists were set to attack. Kyle, though, had a bet with Mr. 4x4 that if leprechauns turned out to be real, he’d suck Eric’s change purse. Needless to say, the Lilliputian envoy is proved ‘real’ through video and other devious means in court, and an (hilarious) subplot ensues whereby Eric goes on a bounty-hunting-like rampage in order to get Kyle to follow through on their deal. It doesn’t end well for Kyle. Though he confronts Cartman in the end, telling him that he’s never going to jingle the fat kid’s change, Eric simply imagines the episode graphically, thus bringing it to life in imagination land, and everybody gets on Kyle’s case about it, anyway.

Lately, it seems like I’m the Cartman in my relationship with Orpheus. We’ve had issues from the beginning dealing with my libido, a.k.a., I have one, and he’s almost strictly a once-a-day guy. Unless he’s been operating under a refectory period (not masturbation free, but me free,) of at least 48 hours, it’s almost impossible to satiate myself with his man-parts to a degree that pleases me. What’s more, he’s kinda lazy in that department. He’ll put out a great deal of energy to do what interests him in bed, which can be more than fine depending on my mood… But when it comes to pleasing me there just doesn’t seem to be overly much commitment on his part, unless he’s also in a very specific mood. Overall, this is most discouraging. I like sex to be hot and intense, yes, but I also like to make it a process, a ritual of renewal. Cuddling, stroking, taking time and care are parts of my approach to a good doink, but Orpheus usually just wants to get to it.

He calls my ministrations ‘clingy,’ and I call his cold and noncommittal. Lately, I’ve been thinking quite a lot about what I want from him, and the tri-partite South Park episode that finally finished last night made me think uncomfortably of Orpheus actually taking the time to go down on me without being asked first. I felt bad thinking of him that way, because he really tries hard to make the sex that he wants enjoyable for me, too… But we’re at an impasse. I’m far better at grinning and bearing it when he needs something, and he doesn’t even think to do the same for me. He’s trying to get used to what I want (which is very similar to what he wants from me, really), but he won’t throw himself at the problem the way I did. Nor does he want to discuss the process, or try to improve the way he’s approaching this problem. I figure, if I’ve lasted through most of a year this way, and there is some headway, I should keep going, but for how long? He hasn’t used the ‘L’ word yet, and acts like he doesn’t care when it comes time for the ritual that makes me feel like there’s something to us.

Boo, Matt Stone and Trey Parker, boo! I already feel bad enough about myself and the world.